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“Haru—hi… Haru… Can you, uhh, c-can you come over…? Ple—” Tamaki’s voice mumbled over the receiver. The voice message ended abruptly.
Kyoya shouldn’t have even opened the voicemail. When his phone first rang, he glanced at the name on the screen, and spent so long deciding whether or not he was going to pick up that the call timed out. The voice message appeared shortly after. It was almost nine pm on a Wednesday, and Kyoya had no idea what Tamaki could’ve wanted from him so late, what couldn’t wait until school tomorrow. In the thirty seconds he hesitated before clicking ‘play,’ his imagination got a little ahead of itself, but the first thing Tamaki said was Haruhi’s name. His heart sank.
I shouldn’t be doing this, he thought presently. I have no reason to be doing this, but he was pulling his coat on nonetheless. It wasn’t him Tamaki wanted, but he sounded out of sorts. Kyoya had heard that voice before. It’d been two years now, but the last time he heard Tamaki fumble his words as if in a daze like that was when he was overtaken by a horrible fever. So he buttoned up his coat, cursed himself once, and stepped outside. The driver was already waiting.
“The Suoh estate,” he ordered simply, an embarrassing blush creeping up his face. Tamaki was his friend. In some ways, he was his only friend. The others were kind—they respected him and his position in the club—but Tamaki was different. He’d torn down his walls like a kaiju on a mission. Kyoya couldn’t place exactly when he started to feel differently. Maybe he never considered Tamaki a regular friend to begin with, but after more inner turmoil than he cared to dwell on, it’d become obvious that his feelings for Tamaki weren’t what friends were supposed to feel for each other. It was also obvious that what he felt was one-sided. Tamaki was nice to everyone. Kyoya sympathized with the ladies who flocked to him like moths to a flame; he had a skill for making you feel like you were special. The worst part was, when it came to Kyoya, he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
The drive to Tamaki's family home took a somewhat agonizing seventeen minutes. Throughout the smooth drive, Kyoya fought the urge to roll down the window between himself and the driver and ask him to take him straight back home, but every time he reached for the button, Tamaki's image flooded his mind, and he drew his hand back into himself. He opened his phone and read over the automated transcription it'd generated of the voicemail. Tamaki's voice was so low and cracked that it hadn't picked up much other than the "...you come over," but that suited Kyoya just fine; he was tempted to replay the message itself, but he didn't want to hear Haruhi's name on Tamaki's tongue any more than he already had to. So he sighed, shoved his hands into his pockets, and gazed out the window into the blackness that extended outside.
When the car finally rolled up the driveway, Kyoya leapt out before his chauffeur had the opportunity to open the door for him. He approached the tremendous door of the manor at a trot that bordered on a run. He reached for the knocker on the outside, but the door was already opening by the time his arm extended. A maid was standing on the other side.
“Master Ootori,” she greeted him, perplexed; Kyoya imagined his expression was neutral, but the way her eyes widened, it was possible his face betrayed more than he intended. “How can I help you at this hour?”
Kyoya didn’t reply. He shoved past her and into the house, the chauffeur apologizing in his wake. He headed straight for the stairs—he knew where he needed to go.
“Um, the young master isn’t feeling well!” the Suoh maid called from the bottom of the stairs, but again, Kyoya said nothing. The lights of the expansive hallway were lit but dim; in a minute that felt more like twenty, Kyoya was standing before Tamaki’s bedroom door.
He paused. There wasn’t any light beneath the door. Kyoya didn’t hear anything, but even if there was anything to hear, the pounding of his pulse in his temples would’ve drowned it out. His chest tightened, but he reached for the handle and pulled.
The sliver of light he released cast a warm glow on Tamaki’s resting form. He was beneath the plush covers, a wet towel on his forehead and a massive glass of water beside the bed. Immediately, the clenching in Kyoya’s chest relented. Tamaki was alone, and that was a good sign; he didn’t require the doctor at arm’s reach. Kyoya exhaled softly as he entered the room. When he shut the door behind him, Tamaki fidgeted.
“Nguh?” he groaned, eyes crunching open. His voice was weak.
“Tamaki,” Kyoya murmured, soft and low. “Hey.”
“Mmh…” Tamaki groaned again, “Mommy?”
Kyoya adjusted his glasses and approached the bed. He had half expected to hear Haruhi’s name again. He recognizes me.
“Yeah, I’m here. How’d you get so sick, huh?” Kyoya asked, sitting on top of the blanket and lifting the towel from Tamaki’s head. He felt his forehead beneath: it was clammy and sweat gathered around the blond’s pajama collar.
“I dunnoooo…” Tamaki whined. His gaze was glassy, and he couldn’t seem to decide which of Kyoya’s eyes he wanted to focus on.
“Would you like some water?” Kyoya asked, reaching for the glass on the nightstand.
“No,” Tamaki grumbled, “I just wanna sleeeeeep… Wah…”
Kyoya drew his hand back to his side. In the moonlight that drifted through Tamaki’s open blinds, he was almost effulgent; pale light danced over his golden hair and illuminated his warm face. Kyoya had seen Tamaki that red before—it wasn’t when he was sick, or when he was with the rest of the club. It was when he was with Haruhi.
“Okay, then,” Kyoya said. “Go to sleep.”
He’ll never look at me the way he looks at her. That he knew. He’ll never look at me with his face so pink in the daylight. Kyoya wondered if once Tamaki’s mind cleared, he would remember how he called Haruhi’s name, and regret that she didn’t come.
Tamaki’s eyes fluttered shut, and like he was never awake, his breathing fell even and steady. Kyoya ran a tentative finger through a tress of blond hair. I wonder if he’ll remember this, too, he thought—if Tamaki would remember who did come, or if he would even care. No; he probably would care. When he made it back to school, he’d probably say, “Kyoya, I’m so touched!” and slap a hand onto his vice-president’s shoulder. Kyoya wasn’t sure which would hurt more.
“Tamaki,” he whispered, quiet as the breeze, “are you awake?”
Tamaki didn’t reply. Of course he’s not. Kyoya’s heart pounded in his throat. He knew he should leave. Tamaki was fine. He was well looked-after. If he needed companionship, the desire had passed.
But it was too late. Even while Kyoya was telling himself why his feet should be gliding down the stairs, his body was leaning down.
He pressed his lips against Tamaki’s cheek. It was just for a moment—less than a moment, really. He pulled away just as soon.
“I’m sorry,” Kyoya whispered, so near-silent he wasn’t sure whether the words were really said. He watched Tamaki’s breath rise and fall, and in another instant, he made to stand.
“Don’t… leave…”
He’s awake? Kyoya froze.
“Mmgh… Haru…”
Kyoya breathed a sigh of relief. Tamaki’s eyes were still shut, and his sweaty form twisted underneath the covers. Kyoya pulled the covers around Tamaki’s chin down to his collar. It’s Haruhi again. That name still. I guess he’s still lonely.
“Sure, Tamaki,” Kyoya replied. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” He brushed away a strand of hair that caught between Tamaki’s lips. Tamaki mumbled something unintelligible, and then his body stilled once more. Kyoya sighed. Wow… Look at me. This is pathetic. He almost chuckled to himself.
Adjusting the towelette on Tamaki’s forehead, Kyoya reached for his friend’s phone. He knew the password; Tamaki didn’t care to keep secrets. Watching the moonlight flicker over the sculpted planes of Tamaki’s face, Kyoya deleted the record of his call and voice message. When he was finished, he opened his own phone.
I’m sorry, Tamaki, he thought. I’m sorry it’s me instead of her. He deleted the voicemail as well.
When he was done, Kyoya opened his messages and informed the chauffeur that he would not be requiring a ride home.
Kyoya ran a hand through Tamaki’s pale hair and stole another kiss from his cheek, another silent apology echoing through his mind. When Tamaki was lucid again, Kyoya would behave the same as he always did; his voice would be cool and detached, his distance appropriate—but Tamaki wasn’t lucid just yet.
Tamaki, Kyoya thought. Your best friend is even more selfish than you think.
Then he laid his head on the side of the bed, and listened to the soft rising and falling of his crush’s chest.